


A Variety of Professional Experience

by TelepathJeneral



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-15
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:41:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24200740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TelepathJeneral/pseuds/TelepathJeneral
Summary: Before the melody, before the song.
Relationships: Dr. Harold Winston/Sigma | Siebren de Kuiper, Moira O'Deorain/Sigma | Siebren de Kuiper
Kudos: 19





	1. Prologue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Before the melody, before the song.

Space was a beautiful thing. Huge and terrible, right on humanity’s doorstep, and yet brought close and made real. To feel it beneath one’s fingertips was a blessing beyond any religion, and Siebren knew how fortunate he was. Stars sparkled, light and heat flourishing in their full power, and gravity pulled. It was so close. So, so close.

Even here, on the moon, the fine edge of knowledge was being honed down. Siebren felt that itch in his fingers, the yearning of a child reaching for a mobile just beyond his reach, but the movement helped. He had to keep moving. He had to find more, learn more, do more. 

Harold’s fingers tightened, and Siebren felt his chest hitch.  _ Harold _ . A good, solid, Saxon name, a man of clever wit and easy smiles, who had gravitated to Siebren within the first few minutes of their introduction.

‘Gravitated’. Hah. A good word, that.

“ _ God _ .” Harold was so sensitive. Siebren could lift his legs and shift his pelvis just slightly, and Harold would be gasping again, hands grasping for purchase somewhere and anywhere. Siebren wanted to smile and tease him, but his mind was swimming, his head throbbing with the pulse that had started deep in his chest. 

They’d found an unused bunk. It was a step above their first choice of an empty closet, but there was still the sense of sneaking into the back for a quickie. Siebren liked to think of himself as a rule-follower, but Harold’s hands on his hips and those short, quick thrusts were wearing away his resolution for any rules and regulations.

They’d told him that he would need to “address his needs” while on rotation. Visiting the moon was not the same as going up to the station, but the medical assessment was the same. Siebren had discussed some of his concerns with the other staff members, but they had assured him: everyone had their privacy, and everyone knew that it was a natural part of sharing close quarters. He had only tried it a few times, relying on his own imagination to let him reach orgasm. But then he had met Harold, and Harold had been quite convincing. 

“Siebren--” And there it was, that needy breath so close to a whine, that trembling desperation in Harold’s voice. Siebren echoed it with a cry of his own, lifting his hips to feel the shift of Harold’s cock inside him. He wanted to hold Harold close, but his eyelids fluttered and his body rebelled. Harold’s hips were thrusting into him, filling him over and over, tending to that spot inside him that softened and twitched with expectation. Against his stomach, his own erection glistened with pre-cum, and as Harold lifted himself forward, Harold’s own body brushed that sensitive skin to make Siebren gasp anew. 

“ _ Yes _ , Harold.” Siebren shifted and moved, tightening his core to feel Harold inside him. Harold held himself high, his broad chest glistening with sweat. Siebren whimpered for him, gasping for breath, and as his cock twitched he could hear Harold shouting.

“Siebren!” Harold was so quick, so desperate. Siebren’s hips thrust as he came, his release spilling over his abdomen, but he closed his eyes and clenched his legs to pull Harold deeper into him. Harold was a perfect man. Soft and gentle but hard enough to fill him like this. Siebren’s mind swam, Harold’s fingers digging into his thighs, and he could not stop himself from smiling as Harold thrust.

As he caught his breath, Siebren reached for Harold, dragging him down to press close to his chest. Harold was so carefully proportioned, his face lean and angular, and Siebren panted softly as he gripped Harold’s chest. Harold lowered himself to Siebren, trembling as he brushed his lips over Siebren’s nose and cheeks.

Siebren could not make sense of things: Harold was so close and yet so far, those strong arms braced on either side of Siebren’s body, lips warm against his skin. Siebren cooed to him, slipping his hands around Harold’s torso to feel the angles of Harold’s back, and shifted his hips to press himself more firmly beneath Harold.

“You’re…” Siebren could not find a suitable word to compliment Harold, focusing instead on the sensation of Harold’s shoulder blades beneath his fingertips. As he shifted, he could feel Harold pressing closer, lips finally pressing to Siebren’s neck. “Harold.”

“Siebren.” Harold nuzzled close, and Siebren could feel him smiling. “You’re incredible.”

“Thank you.” Siebren hummed, feeling both the post-coital rush and the sparkling flush of Harold’s compliment. “You are not so bad yourself, Harold.”

Harold chuckled, lifting himself higher to press their bodies together. Siebren could feel the length of him, the soft slide of their legs and hips shifting, and Siebren gripped tighter in a refusal to let him leave. They would have to separate soon enough--they both had scheduled projects, and it wouldn’t do to let themselves remain a mess like this. Sweat and sticky residue coated his thighs, and he could feel the prickling discomfort as his euphoria began to fade, but he did not let go. A few more moments, that would be all. Let him have Harold for a few moments longer. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It’s just that you’re--” Not him. “I. I remembered something.” Someone.

So much had happened. There had been the moon, the station, the yawning chasm of space. There had been the sound. The screaming. And then deep, empty whiteness.

Siebren did not often recognize his own name, any longer. They had burned it out of him. Hands had grasped him, dragged him screaming back into that pit, and it took him several months before he realized he’d come to Earth again. The pressure around his lungs was just the weight of Earth’s gravity, and the pain in his limbs was the increased weight of his own body. Each sensation was alien and painful, and he screamed for relief until his throat bled.

Hands touched him. They poked and prodded, sliced him open and stitched him up again, all in aid of more screaming. There were clamps and needles and scalpels, and he lost weight and gained it in turns as he was passed from facility to facility. Nameless. Faceless. Senseless. 

Eventually, the white became black. No longer the padded cells and hospital beds, but darker places, sinister in their gloom. He heard names and forgot them in the same moment, gaining stability only with the addition of machinery to his arms and legs. Moments of lucidity brought him painful awareness, only to be swallowed by his madness. But in the darkness, there were less needles. Eventually. Fewer scalpels. There was only the gentle, steady pressure of weight against him or atop him, centering him. Keeping him ‘down to earth’.

By the time he could remember Moira’s name, he had already identified her mentally as a centerpoint of this place. A candle flame, dancing in a cave. Her hands were not soft or delicate, but they were precise, and she would talk to him with a low, steady voice. When he could force his eyes open, he could watch her, those specific and decisive movements. No effort was wasted. No energy expended without cause. Finally, there was the day when she came to him, and stroked his chin, and ran her hand over the stubble of his hair, and he shuddered to realize that she had a purpose here, too.

She would sit in his lap, sometimes. He could even hold conversations with her, and she complimented him on his improvement. There were some adjustments, yes, and Talon--he’d learned about Talon, finally--removed him directly from her care, but he began to see her in other ways. She would come to him without the white coat of her profession, and he could hold her closer. 

There were times when she would speak sharply to him. He hated it, not merely because she would be angry, but because it made him afraid, and it was stupid for him to be afraid. He’d gained muscle, returned to the strength of his original status before the--some time ago. There was no reason for him to be afraid of  _ her _ . He could send her skittering across the floor, or crush her bones into paste, with a mere  _ thought _ .

But he did not do that. Because to lose her, to lose the touch of her hand, would have been painful. 

It was only when she stayed later and later, when she teased him in public and crept into his quarters at night, that he began to feel an alternate anguish. She never asked painful questions. She undressed him slowly, using her hands with skill and determination, and he only redirected her when she stroked the inside of his thighs. She was surprised to hear him ask, and he flushed in youthful embarrassment as she considered it. 

Moira came to him with all the confidence of her medical training and expertise, and Siebren accepted her attention willingly. It was...unusual. He had come so far, and remained lucid for so long, that the discomfort he felt was both familiar and alien in equal turns. 

“Siebren.” She used his name. It made his chest ache, but she stroked his abdomen, smoothed away his concerns. He nodded.

“Doctor.” He had prepared himself for this, without even her assistance. It had been surprising, but not unpleasant. Even now, Moira sat between his legs, their clothes discarded on the floor beside the bed, and she used one hand to stroke his thigh with easy familiarity. She was not embarrassed by his body, the way he was. She was not embarrassed with her body. Her stoicism made him relax, and he propped himself up on his elbows, watching as his penis slowly stirred with arousal.

“You’re fortunate that I’m allowed such liberties, Siebren. I didn’t realize you might be so...needy.” She smiled that slow, easy smile, and Siebren wasn’t sure if it made her look frightening or comforting. Perhaps both. Her fingers slid, stroking the sensitive skin beneath his scrotum, and Siebren closed his eyes to focus as she sat up. It was easier to listen, rather than look. Moira seemed to agree in some part, as she made no sound as she continued her exploration, and Siebren could hear her moving as she adjusted herself and slid her fingers further down. 

His request had been unconventional. As a man, he had experienced attraction to women, and as a woman, Moira was a particularly fine specimen. But even after their initial exploration, her hands on his skin and he beneath her, he had wanted...more. It had come haltingly, uncertainly, but finally he had been able to explain. As Moira sat up, pressing a finger into his entrance, Siebren breathed deep, willing his body to relax as she worked at the ring of muscle.

“Siebren.” Her voice was warm, cajoling. Siebren shivered, his sensitivity heightened by the smoothness of lubrication coating her fingers. He braced himself, tensing, but when Moira only massaged and caressed him without pushing deeper, he opened his eyes to face her. 

“Please.”

“I need to hear you ask.”

“I have--I did ask.” He whined softly, lifting his hips. She was so small, between his legs, nothing like-- “I want you to use me. To--to fuck me.”

“Dirty words, Siebren.” Moira sighed, moving her hand between her legs. “Toys are meant to be fun. I would like for you to have fun.”

“Fun.” He repeated, watching her move. At least she was moving, now. She’d shown him the device she’d planned to use, a jelly-like purple thing, but it  _ felt _ quite different when pressed between his legs. Siebren inhaled deeply again, closing his eyes as Moira shifted herself forward. 

It was tortuously slow, he realized. Moira was a thorough professional, even here, and though she was being pleasured in some fashion by the toy between them, she did not rush him. Siebren wanted to beg, to whine or complain, but some remnant of his dignity found the idea distasteful, and he focused instead on the sensation of something inside him.

Like stoking a fire, each movement kindled the sensation further. It brushed the most sensitive part of him, making him gasp, and he tried to angle his hips and ride the movement to its fullest. He could see Moira’s smile, her genuine pleasure evinced in that sharp-toothed grin, but neither of them spoke as she increased her pace. There was nothing desperate in her movements. The same economy of movement that dictated her working hours still held sway here, and Siebren felt his chest tighten as memories mixed and blended. So quiet. So bright, here, and Moira’s hands so sharp and decisive. 

She thrust her hips forward and filled him, pierced him to his core, and Siebren cried out as she pushed. He knew she must be getting closer, for Moira would do nothing without a goal in mind, but he could not open his eyes to see the evidence of her own arousal. He had been able to watch enough earlier as she’d undressed, the peaks of her nipples hardening when exposed to the air. Now, however, as she filled him, driving him to the brink, he twisted beneath her, tears starting into his eyes as his body tensed in preparation.

“ _ Siebren _ .” She murmured, low and deep, her voice almost gravelly with desire, and her hands slid beneath his legs to lift him up. Nails dug into his skin and he cried out, louder this time, as the pain coincided with the first pulse of climax. Even as his cock twitched, Siebren felt something in him twist, and suddenly he was falling, pulled in different directions as the strain broke him.

His lover was not quiet and low and aggressive, his lover was unsure, charismatic, sweet. The person between his legs was meant to be the fumbling, uncertain biologist, wasn’t it, that brilliant man with the winning smile--

But it wasn’t him. It was  _ her _ , her back arched and her grip firm, nearly silent as she pushed him over the edge. Her own arousal was such a quiet thing, nothing like it was  _ meant _ to be, nothing like the cries and exhortations of his real partner. This was wrong. It was all wrong, and yet he could remember the parts this time. So often, he’d forgotten something along the way. But he could remember all the parts, each interlocking piece of the chain.

He could remember Harold, giving him a tour of the moon facility, lounging with him under the stars. He could remember those snatched, frantic moments in the dark, the memories that had comforted him during the long rotations of isolation on the space station. He could remember meeting Moira, now, her cold clinical eyes assessing him as he’d writhed on a table. It wasn’t meant to be this way. It wasn’t meant to be her.

Siebren shouted, his torso twisting as he tried to crawl away from her. He wished there were words, but they had abandoned him, lost in this moment of heat and sound and pressure. His cock jerked, spilling his release over his abdomen, and Siebren could feel Moira’s hands still on his legs. She didn’t pull him closer. She didn’t do it correctly, did she, she didn’t do the right things or say the right things. 

His head swam, and there were hands on him again. He could feel himself falling, tumbling head over heels, and his back arched as he inhaled to scream. Screaming would release the twisting inside him, would drown out the melody and memory, would erase the thought of Harold’s desperate cries. He had given it up so easily, without realizing, and now it was all wrong.

Before he could finish the movement, however, something was clinging to him, covering his mouth, scraping along his skull. He struggled to breathe, his lungs desperate for breath and for the scream that now lingered in his throat, but then there were lips at his ear to whisper gently. It was unusual, uncomfortable, and yet he listened. The scream paused.

“Siebren.” It was her. Moira O’Deorain. She was kissing him now, her head pressed to his, her body lying across the length of his. “Siebren, you’re all right.”

“No!” 

“You are Siebren de Kuiper.”

Lies. Siebren de Kuiper was dead and gone.

“I am Moira O’Deorain.”

A meaningless title.

“And we are here, together, because we care about each other, and we want to make each other happy.”

That was--

He’d asked her, hadn’t he.

And she’d worked very hard.

And now she was doing the right things, somehow, even though she wasn’t Harold, and even though her voice was a woman’s voice and not a man’s, and even though she was far too arrogant and brash when Harold would have been sweet and stammering. Siebren felt the tears prick in his eyes, the scream twisted and swallowed now, and he grabbed for her as she kissed his cheek. It was a gesture all too unusual for her, and he turned his head to hide against her as he began to weep.

This was not what it was meant to be. 

He reached for her, his hands much too large against the gentle curves of her waist and hips, and he was swallowed and in turns swallowing the madness that still raged in him. Moira was lying atop him, the length of her body mirroring his, and it was several minutes before he realized that she was still touching him, stroking his skin, pressing her lips carefully against his brow and cheeks. He opened his mouth, inhaling a deep breath tinged with the scent of her sweat and hair, and her fingers reached to cover his mouth before he managed to speak.

“Could you get us down, Siebren?”

Siebren’s eyes flashed open, and he wriggled back to face her. Moira was evaluating him with her usual cool, calm assessment, but behind her, he could see the length of the floor, the rumpled piles of their clothes, and the plush chair of her quarters. The weight against his back was not the bed: it was the ceiling, now, and Moira was not quite ‘atop’ him, but beneath him, her weight merely the illusion of an inverted gravity.

It made his head hurt. There was the panic, the welling terror, but Moira’s fingers stroked his lips and it...stilled, somewhat. Siebren shuddered, closing his eyes to lean into her, and through slow, careful movements, their bodies slowly detached again from the ceiling and drifted slowly back to the bed. It was a complicated thought: Siebren could not simply ‘let go’, as the specific relationship of his body to gravity was impossible to forgive entirely. It was more like convincing himself of the ‘right way up’, and hoping that his orientation would follow suit; just about as easy as identifying the precise muscle which had a cramp, and shifting that pain to a different muscle entirely. Moira said nothing as they moved, content to remain in his arms, and only pulled away as they reached the bed once more.

“Moira--”

“You don’t need to talk.” Her voice had lost its warmth, and Siebren felt his chest tighten again as she sat up and unfastened the pieces which had attached the toy to her body. She stood, moving with precision to hide the toy in her washroom and clean herself quickly. Siebren eventually sat up, lifting a hand to grab at the blankets to try and pull them tighter around himself.

“Moira?”

“Yes, Siebren.” She returned, her edginess fading, and Siebren stared at her with confusion and fear. What had he done? What would she do now? In answer, she moved closer, sitting naked on the bed to face him.

“I’m--Sorry.”

“Oh, Siebren, no.” She shook her head, lifting a leg to turn more fully toward him. “I knew that this would be complicated. Perhaps it is always a conflict of interest, with you being a former ‘patient’, but the ethics boards have never found my behavior exemplary.” Her smile was whip-quick, a fleeting flash, and Siebren’s stomach churned as he tried to focus.

“It’s simply that--” He inhaled sharply, the rush of emotions all fighting for supremacy and leaving him in a soup of agony and confusion. Moira did not reach for him, or touch him, or cuddle him as she might have before. But no--no, Moira did not ‘cuddle’. It would have been alien to her very being. Siebren drew his legs up, hands tangling in the blanket as he tried to breathe.

“Do you know what did it?”

“It’s just that you’re--”  _ Not him _ . “I. I remembered something.”  _ Someone _ . “You’re the--I remembered what it was. Before the melody. Something about the--about you, and him, and they weren’t the same.” 

Moira’s expression went blank for a moment, a look of true confusion clouding her features, and Siebren nearly turned away before she reached out, climbing back into his lap. It was surprising, but Siebren found it all too easy to wrap his arms around her again, to hide his face against her chest and listen for the beat of her heart. 

“I never supposed you were a virgin.” Moira spoke, and Siebren wasn’t sure if she was addressing him or simply musing aloud. “You’ve had episodes like this before, yes. When we brought you your books. When we called you ‘Siebren’, at first. I should have considered this.” Her fingers stroked his shoulders, her nails scratching at the skin. “ _ I’m _ sorry, Siebren. You may be the one human being who truly understands the meaning of the word ‘disoriented’.”

“There are many words with new meanings.” He murmured, forcing himself to remember the sensation. Of something, or someone,  _ inside _ him, coaxing him to orgasm and hands gripping his thighs. He was not a small man. People did not often ‘baby’ him. But Moira… “You’re much  _ harsher _ than he was.”

“He.” Moira used the pronoun carefully, ignoring the comparative adjective. “You know, I’ve often enjoyed this refutation of position: the woman penetrating the man, the small dominating the large. Well. ‘Small’ and ‘large’ as generic terms, perhaps, not extremes. But you need that, Siebren. How many people have been able to do this for you?”

He didn’t understand the question, and so ignored it to burrow against her, a hand mirroring her slow strokes to feel the curve of her hip and thigh. “I do  _ like _ you, Doctor O’Deorain. It isn’t--I like you. You must know that.”

“I believe you, Siebren. And you fascinate me. I am simply considering what you need, and how I can best provide it.”

“So you do care.” He said the words lightly, amused at her clinical consideration, but Moira pulled away to look into his eyes. Her mismatched irises blazed with intensity, and Siebren felt his skin grow cold to consider how unlike Harold’s they were. Harold’s eyes had sparkled and glittered with excitement. Moira’s  _ burned _ .

“Of  _ course _ I care, Siebren. I care very much about you. I thought I had cauterized every maternal instinct--not out of stubbornness or bitterness, whatever the others might claim--but you  _ need _ me. Or I want you to need me. And in our position, those things are very much one and the same.” Moira broke away suddenly, slipping back from his lap to run a hand through her hair. “You are an intelligent and brilliant man, a man capable of so much and yet reduced to desperate measures.” 

Her sudden silence worried him, but he could not find it in him to interrupt her, and it was several long moments before he finally shifted off the bed to stand. As she had done previously, he moved to the washroom to clean his thighs and abdomen, glancing at himself in the mirror to see the bags under his eyes. He’d gotten old. The hair where it was growing back was fully gray. He returned to the bedroom to gather his clothing, lifting pieces to Moira as he disentangled them from his own. 

“You’re going.”

“I think it would be best.” He straightened, tugging his shirt down over his chest. “It’s not--I don’t mean to be rude. If you want me to stay--”

“No. I need to think.” Moira nodded, standing in order to place a hand on his arm. “If you’d like to try again, sometime, I’m certainly up for it. Just...not right now.”

Siebren blinked, considering her carefully, then took her hand with his own in order to bring it to his lips. With that, he released her, moving back to the door in order to let himself back out into the hallway. The corridors were dark and quiet, as was the norm for so much of Talon’s infrastructure, but it allowed him to think as he walked back to his own room and prepared for bed. The darkness was comforting, and he didn’t need much light. Even so, he feared what his dreams might hold, and so he lay awake for most of the night, curling the blankets tighter and tighter around himself. 

Moira cared for him. That meant something. And he liked her, enjoyed her. She wasn’t Harold. But no one else would be Harold, would they, and Harold would be...unique. Harold had been unique. Moira was unique. It wasn’t traitorous to enjoy Moira, any more than it would be traitorous to Moira to think of Harold from time to time. The two people were part of him, some of the many fragments scattered in his mind, but they did not need to be  _ painful _ fragments. 

He was no psychologist, and he’d already had some of the best trained minds in the field poking around in his psyche. But to consider the possibility of re-forming some of these features, of stitching together the portions that had been splintered apart...it gave him some small measure of hope.


End file.
